


The Scarf, the Doll, and the Dragon Tattoo

by xjEstelli



Category: Mulan (1998)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, Sorrow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xjEstelli/pseuds/xjEstelli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soldier with a dragon tattoo, a brave red Imperial scout, and a little girl of the Tung Shao Pass. This is the story of three unlikely characters who come together, the places they travel, and how they just might have a small but significant role in saving their country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scarf, the Doll, and the Dragon Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to my fellow xiao jie Marubien for sharing her thoughts on this story before anyone else. She makes fangirling feel like a lifestyle. If you ever try to argue with us on anything Mulan related, Disney or otherwise, we will own you so hard.

I can't.

He staggered aside, the snow tripping up his feet. The longer he stared, the higher the bile in his throat rose. He snapped his head away.

I can't do this.

For all his pride and bravado, he knew in his heart of hearts he wasn't cut out for this. The army was fine - it proved to be a good illusion. His dragon tattoo was just an illusion of safety. All the training and teamwork with fellow comrades, all the memories cemented with laughter and singing. All sliced silent the moment they saw what was really awaiting them.

You could learn to spar and break stone with your face and fire cannons, but none of it really mattered if you weren't prepared to face the worst of what lay ahead. Death and destruction. Blood streaming out, faces twisted in final cries of pain. Of fury.

A part of training was meant to toughen you up for this, but not everyone was made of the same stuff. Other soldiers had already slunk away as they passed through towns, slowly waking up to this fact. He was slapped out of his blindness by the red that flowed above and beneath him. The value of honor and life always seemed to change and blur. It was always a question of whether one would give up one for the other.

He drifted further, not noticing much, not noticing the other soldiers murmur and roam around. Did they feel the same as him? That their armor and sword were nothing but decoration? It wasn't possible. All of them had the same look of grim determination. None of them were leaning from tree to tree to get away from the stench of death. None of them were moving faster and deeper into the forest, as if they would get caught the moment they slowed down, either by the soldiers or the ghosts of the village.

Guilt and shame took the form of snow as it floated down from the sky and piled up against him, proving a match for his miserable mind. He slowed and sank in the fresh blanket of snow, dotted with pine needles and pine cones. The red petered off into blankness this deep in the forest. There was no crackling of fire or haze of smoke. Just white flakes settling down, more melancholic than rain for they hushed past his ears.

Ahead, a poor excuse for a shed - if it was a shed. It was that poor of an excuse. But it was much better of an excuse than his, which was to take shelter in it until the storm outside - or inside him - calmed its own quiet rage. Then he would pull himself back up on his feet, march out there, and defend his country with his life, for that is what soldiers do.

There were fragments of fences and shelters around it, but the shed looked the most closed in. It also looked like it would flatten the moment he stepped through the doorway. Pushing aside a curtain and creeping in, his adjusting eyes took note of what looked like a storage space of crates covered with tarp. He collapsed on one such crate and took his time to catch his breath. There was nothing but grayness before him, but he still saw red flowing in his vision.

The tarp beneath his foot moved slightly. His hand drifted to his sword warily, but the sheet didn't move again. Was it his own foot that had made the motion? Maybe it had fallen asleep without him noticing. He shook his foot to make sure it was still with him and felt a mass beneath the sheet. He carefully peeled it back to reveal the body beneath it.

His hand was still grasping for the handle of his sword when he saw the little girl. She was facing away from him in a curled position and holding something against her chest. He gently rolled her over to see what it was.

Her eyes snapped open and her grip on the knife tightened. That was the object pressed tightly to her body and jutting into her chin. Her face contorted slightly as if she was about to wail, but she only stared wordlessly at the soldier in the dim light, her eyes boring deep into his soul.

He took a step back. She was less clothed than him and was shivering fiercely, her body tense and ready to spring. He contemplated just leaving her there and walking away, pretending he never saw her. Then he remembered the captain telling them to look for survivors. Here was quite possibly the only survivor of the Tung Shao Pass, keeping him in place with her wide eyes.

"Hey," he said, avoiding her stare. "I'm not here to hurt you are anything…thing…uh…soldiers are actually here to save you. There's protection and safety where I come from…how about you follow me back instead of being here all by yourself?"

He tried to sound assured though he wanted to hide under a sheet as well. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but her lips were cracked and bleeding and she ran her tongue over them instead.

"Let's wait for the howling storm to pass before heading out…okay?"

She seemed to nod reluctantly, and he didn't know whether she was hesitant because she was afraid he would still harm her or because she detected the lack of confidence in him.

He hoped the snow would bury most of the bloodbath. He hoped once they got back he would be ordered to take the girl elsewhere instead of following the troop into the danger zone so he would be able to avoid battle as well. He hoped a lot of things.

They creeped out of the shed once everything was still. His footsteps had been buried so they wandered in circles before the girl turned them firmly in the direction of her village. She had a sheet wrapped around her and was pale enough to wither away. He wondered if she was ready to go back after seeing what she had seen. He wondered if he was.

Everything was deathly quiet at the edge of the burned-out village. He wanted to tell her she could close her eyes and he would lead her but she marched ahead before he could utter a word, the sheet flattening the fresh snow. His heart was pounding. He wondered if he should close his eyes.

Her gaze took in everything from splintery wooden beams that once supported houses to ripped flags that once billowed proudly. She trudged right past the battlegrounds which was mostly covered with snow, to his relief. She stopped a little way down and brushed the white stuff off of something.

He took his own look around as he waited for her to come back. He knew he should follow her out there to make sure she was okay, but he didn't want to risk getting dizzy over the carnage close up again. So he waited for her to pass by it a second time.

This little girl had more guts than he did.

He had been expecting to find his fellow soldiers who would know what to do. But they were gone. There wasn't even a large set of footprints pointing in the direction they had left. He didn't know what to feel. Abandoned, because they had just left him behind without bothering to search for him, or relieved, because this meant he was cut from the army for good. He was free. Or was he?

Either way, he knew deepdown he had not left it with the best lingering in his mind. The guilt wallowed there, forever longing for closure.

The girl was returning. She had the same grim look as the soldiers, but also like she was ready to cry. The sheet clung desperately to her shoulders and between the crack he could see where she had tucked the knife in the cloth belt of her dress. A doll in a red dress hung limply in her small hands.

"This used to be mine," she was saying, a strong gust of wind carrying her soft and solemn words in his direction. The long loose hair of both the girl and the doll whipped across their faces. "I gave it to my sister. She was two."


End file.
